You Know
by Upside-Up
Summary: Finally, another drabble. This one is quite short, but something about it just tickles me. Warning, I thrice drop the F-bomb in this chapter. Hodgins-centric. Enjoy
1. Chapter 1

You know things. Some things are facts, things you've been told or learned on your own. Some things you wish you didn't know, and some things are just instinctive.

For example, you know what it's like to take a life. You know the tingle that starts in the tips of your fingers and engulfs the rest of your body, fully, horribly, the second the target, the person, breathes their last breath. You've looked at friends as the light leaves their eyes and you've looked at enemies as the light leaves theirs. You know what it's like to kill good guys, to kill bad guys, and that at the end of the day it doesn't really feel any different, any better. It makes you feel cold and numb and a little sick, every day, and you try to forget, to make amends.

You know that your team of squints is hurting more than they let on, and that the loss of Zach has affected them all in completely different but equally devastating ways. You know that Bones hasn't recovered, and that underneath the surface, she's full of writhing emotions, scratching to get out. None of them are fine; they're conflicted, torn between their love for their friend and the horror of what he was capable of. You're conflicted too. You, like the rest of them, still think that there was something you could have done that you just failed to do.

You know you're a good father. You question it, sometimes, but deep down you know it's true. You're nothing like your own father. You may have pain and you may have anger and a bit of rage, but you're not a monster like your old man was. You love your son more than anything in the world, and he knows that. The thought of anyone doing to Parker what your old man did to you makes your blood boil, so you tell him you love him and hug him and pack his lunches and teach him to throw a football. You do everything your own father didn't.

You know that you don't know everything. Hell, it's hard to forget with Bones around. You know your limitations, mental and physical, though you ignore the latter, pushing yourself further than you should. You have to, in your line of work, when your teammates, coworkers and loved ones are put in peril as often as they are. You know you might not be the smartest, the fastest or the best dressed, but you've sure as hell got heart, and you know that counts for a lot.

You know that falling for your partner seems insane on paper. You two are as different as two people can be, if you ignore the matching stubborn streaks. But you love her. Damn it, you _love_ her. Adore her. And you'd do anything for her. Her touches, even the slightest ones, even the most overt, the hugs, the kisses, the slight brushes of the hand, affect you like no other person's. Her voice, her laugh, her impossible eyes, they get you through the day. She looks to you for comfort, for protection, for friendship, and you give it all willingly. You'd give her your right arm, if she asked you to. You don't tell her though, not yet.

You also know that she'll come around, eventually. You know pushing her will bring the exact opposite outcome than the one you want. She'll figure it out sometime, in that incredibly brilliant but socially inept way she has. And when she falters, takes three steps back from everything you've built, you'll smile and reassure and lead her four steps forward. When she gets there, to the same place as you, you'll be happy. You know this because right now, you're pretty damned close. You let yourself drift into fantasy sometimes. You wonder what it will be like when she finally comes around, who will move into whose place, what she looks like when she's just woken up from a full night's sleep, how long she takes in the shower and how she organizes her closet. You think back to that mistletoe kiss and you look forward to about a million more.

You know she'll come around. Instinctively, you do. You've been dancing around one another, building this structure of trust and dependence and barely-concealed love, and eventually, you'll both be in the same place at the same time, and it'll be magic. She'll tell you there's no such thing, and you'll just smile.

Because you know.


	2. If you listen to the trees

The silence in your office is like a lead shirt; uncomfortable and heavy. The quiet that had preceded Dr. Brennan's statement hadn't weighed nearly this much, but with one statement it seems like the gravity had increased tenfold. You sit in it, waiting for one of them to speak. You want to hear their reactions to what Dr. Brennan has just told you; this is not a time for prying questions.

For her part, Dr. Brennan is sitting straight-backed, looking somewhat uncomfortable, unable to decide whether to continue looking at you defiantly or to glance over at the unmoving Booth. He hasn't looked at either of you since she'd dropped the bomb. His elbows rest on his knees and his face is buried in his hands and if you weren't positive that he had to be conscious in order to sit that way, you would swear that he'd stopped breathing. You desperately want to say something. Your face is aching to break into a big, goofy smile, but you refrain. Obviously, even if based solely on their body language and not on the history you know them to share, this is not happy news.

Finally, Brennan, sick of waiting, sick of not looking at Booth and in a clear state of discomfort, attacks you.

"Why are you just staring at us? Shouldn't you be making all kinds of unscientific conclusions about the reasoning behind it? You can't be a very good psychiatrist if all you do is sit there."

You raise your eyebrows at her and knit your fingers together. There's no way she's goading you into saying something. You know that as soon as you open your mouth, one of them will find a reason to get angry and storm out. And Booth still hasn't moved, so you wait.

"I don't see why it's such a big deal." Brennan crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. A soft, strangled, bitter scoff comes from between Booth's hands. Her eyes flick over to where he still sits, unmoving.

"There's a perfectly good, rational reason behind Booth and I having intercourse." You see a small twitch in Booth's hands and deduce that under them, he's probably wincing at her phrasing.

"I," she pauses, takes a breath, "am considering having a child, and since sperm donors are expensive at best and unreliable, I thought, since Booth is a very good specimen of male DNA-"

"It was a mistake."

You look over at Booth, who has raised his head, finally, but is looking at no one in particular. You sneak a quick glance at Brennan's hurt expression before focusing all of your attention on the FBI agent.

He doesn't say anything else, but stares at his hands, his elbows still resting on his knees. He looks miserable, and you think rightfully so. Having worked with the pair as long as you have, you know the depth of Booth's feelings for his partner, as well as his stance on love and sex. It must be heart breaking for him to hear her talk about it in such unfeeling, scientific terms.

Dr. Brennan recovers herself and replies "Well, I don't think tha-"

This time he looks her straight in the eye, and even Dr. Brennan must be able to see the hurt in his face. "It was a mistake." He emphasises the last word.

The pair don't break eye contact for quite some time. Dr. Brennan looks shocked, and a little hurt, while Booth looks downright miserable. Finally, you decide to speak.

"Why would you say it's a mistake, Agent Booth?"

"Because that's what it is, Sweets. Sex should not be a science experiment. It should be-" he stops himself. He's growing angry and you can tell that he is trying his best to suppress it. He's not looking at Brennan anymore; his eyes are pinned on you.

Never one to give up, he rephrases. "It isn't a means to an end. It is an end. It isn't rational, it's emotional. It's not," he sighs. He's still looking at you, but you know his words are directed at the other person in the room. "It's not science. It isn't goddamn science."

His voice is quiet, but hard. He hasn't broken eye contact, and you're desperate to look at Dr. Brennan. You pull your eyes away and she's stock still and pale. She looks at you, then back at Booth, whose eyes are still glued to your face.

"Anthropologically-" but she is again cut off.

"No, Bones!" He turns his whole body in his chair. "Anthropology is broad! It's history and group study! This-" he seems to suddenly realise that he's raised his voice, and brings it down to a low grumble, almost a growl. "This... last night... that was personal."

She's stunned for a moment, as are you.

"I... I thought that I was clear about... when I..." She never stutters, but you think that even Cam would stutter under Booth's angry, hurt gaze.

"I know Bones," his voice is cold. "I never said it was your mistake."

He looks away from her and stands. He buttons a button on his blazer and turns to face you. He looks you in the eye and shakes your hand. "Well Sweets, it's been a pleasure working with ya. I've got paperwork to get to."

The finality of his gesture makes your heart sink a little. Without looking at Brennan, without helping her into her jacket or suggesting Thai food or coffee, without a shoulder nudge or a smile, he turns his back on you both and leaves the room.

You hesitantly look at Brennan, whose eyes are welling with tears. She is at a loss, and she's not the only one. You open your mouth to say something comforting, to say anything, but you don't. Booth has said it all. She sits for another few moments, presumably to regain her composure.

Finally, she slowly stands up and you don't miss that she swipes at her eyes with a shaking hand before shrugging on her jacket. She stops at the door as if she wants to say something. Her back is to you and she takes a deep breath. Appearing to change her mind, her head drops for a moment.

Then her hand is on the door and she's gone, and you can't help but wonder if you'll ever see either of them again.


	3. It's been a long day, a long time

It had been an endless, exhausting day for Booth; too many suspects and not enough evidence tended to make time valuable and Booth's head ache. Bones had been flitting in and out of his day; bossing the squints around, running from crime scene to lab to crime scene, always, always focused on the task at hand. Their car rides were quiet and tense. Cases that hit too close to home always made small talk and banter less appropriate, in a way. They were funeral-parlour polite. He hadn't cracked a smile all day.

Tired of pacing back and forth, tired of glancing up at the platform every ten seconds, hell, just _tired_, he decided to do something that always made him feel a little better. Sneaking one last look at his solemn, beautiful partner, he turned on his heel, shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks and walked away, shelving his anxiety and feelings of helplessness, even just for a little while.

Reaching his intended destination, he took a moment in the doorway before knocking. He watched for a moment as slim, pale fingers flitted across several keyboards and mouse pads; as long, dark hair caught the light and curtained over bare, tense shoulders. He could hear her humming something unintelligible somewhere deep in her throat. He heaved an audible sigh and knocked twice on the door frame. She spun in her chair to face him and gifted him with a slightly dimmed version of one of her thousand-watt smiles.

"Hey Ange," he mustered up what he hoped would pass for a smile. "How's it going in here?"

"Oh you know," her mouth twisted into a half-frown and her eyes flicked briefly toward her computer screens, then back at his face, that ever present sheer film of almost-tears creating a thin barrier between her and the rest of the world, "trying to give a little boy's face to a tiny, broken skull." She gestured to the hard grey couch, offering him asylum from the chaos outside. He sat. His heart felt heavy; like it was pushing down on his stomach and making him feel ill. Angela rubbed her palms slowly down her cheeks and reached two polished fingers up to toy with one of her dangling earrings. "Sometimes I really hate this job."

Booth let out a strangled laugh that could have just as easily passed as a groan. He rested his elbow on his knee and rubbed the back of his neck in a motion that was reflexive; a self-comforting habit derived from too many nights coming home to an empty apartment and too many days spent in front of people who needed to see him be strong. "You and me both, pretty lady."

She cocked a perfect eyebrow at him. "Sorry," his fingers, picking at his nails, "just trying to lighten the mood."

"It was a valiant effort," she lifted herself from her chair and let her impossibly long legs carry her to the couch. Sitting beside him, she placed a hand on his back, "but it's a heavy mood, G-man. Not sure it's going to get any lighter."

"Yeah," Booth breathed, turning his face to look at hers, "I know."

The time they spent together, with no one else around, was a rare occurrence. Usually they were on a case, on the platform, in a crowded bar or diner; never alone. It was nice to just spend quiet time with someone who knew him, but didn't know everything. It was nice to spend time with a person who didn't confuse the crap out of him, or talk down to him or make him feel like his heart might explode. It was nice to spend time with someone who didn't look at life through a microscope or a text book. It was really nice to just spend time with Angela, for once.

She was rubbing cursive O's into his back and he took a moment to bask in this easy friendship they shared. Examining her face openly and unabashedly, he took in the slackness of the skin under her eyes, the paleness of her usually joy-flushed face, the small lines that he'd never point out, but that he knew meant she'd been frowning, creasing her brow. Her eyes crinkled a little and he focused his attention there; on the looming darkness behind them. She was a mystery to him, like he was to her, and he liked it that way. They didn't need to solve each other; they didn't need to speak to one another every day, even every week, to be content with who they were to each other.

Her eyebrows tilted up and her eyes began to moisten further, to seep through the cracks like raindrops through a badly-shingled roof. "Brennan says he was three and a half."

He tilted his head forward, placed a kiss firmly in the centre of her forehead and she leaned in, letting the tears fall. Wrapping his arms around her, he couldn't help but think that despite his muscles, his size, despite his skill with guns and knives, he wasn't the only strong person in this room. Feeling her shoulders begin to shake, he tightened their embrace, pulling her closer, allowing her to wrap her arms around his neck. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back the tears threatening to escape his eyes; fought to keep images of Parker at three-an-a-half, smiling, beautiful, blonde and innocent, at bay.

"It isn't fair," he mumbled, barely noticing the sound of his own voice cracking under the strain of emotion, "it isn't fair."

They sat together for a little while; holding each other up, keeping each other afloat. Her tears long subsided, Angela finally leaned away from their embrace, wiping a stray drop from her long, dark eyelashes and placing a kiss on Booth's cheek. He let himself smile a little and smoothed her hair where it had become dishevelled. A mutual understanding passed between them. The moment of pain and support had passed; there was work to be done and lives to be lived. It was time to lighten the heavy mood.

"I wonder what Hodgins would have done had he walked in a couple seconds ago." Booth twisted his tiny smile into a half-hearted smirk as Angela's eyes brightened.

"Oh, god. Or Brennan?" Her face erupted into a smile that made Booth feel warm, and she laughed in that beautiful, melodic way one imagines sirens laughing, "No, really. Picture in your head right now the exact look on both of their faces." She let out a very un-ladylike snort and Booth found himself laughing along. Between ragged, hiccupping breaths Angela attempted to imitate Brennan's look of confusion and Booth let his mouth hang open and eyebrows raise in true Jack Hodgins style. They chuckled at one another, ignoring the complicated histories intertwined with the two unfortunate victims of their bad impressions. Soon, there was a knock on the still-open door, breaking through the sounds of their laughter.

"You have a face for me?" Cam asked in her usual brusque, matter-of-face manner. The two broke eye contact and the mirth left the office, sucked out into space like a vacuum. Angela stood and walked back to her desk.

"It's almost finished rendering," she replied, her voice deep and monotonous.

Cam was looking at Booth. "Dr. Brennan needs you on the platform, when you've got a minute."

"Sure," Booth stood and straightened his tie, "sorry, Cam, we were just-"

"Giggling like a couple of school girls? I know. See you out there." With that, Cam spun around in the fashion of someone too classy for a navy blue lab coat and was gone.

Booth paused on the precipice of the outside world. "Hey, I'll see you later."

"Yeah," without her turning around, Booth could tell she was smiling, "you will."

He placed his hands in his pockets and turned to face the chaos. As he headed back to the confusion of the platform and all the people, dead and alive, who occupied it, he noticed that he was still smiling, and that suddenly, his day didn't feel so endless.


	4. Ink

Yes, he has a tattoo.

And yes, it is a portrait of his ex-fiancée.

And yes, it's huge, and no, it didn't hurt; or at least, he can't remember it hurting. He remembers pain, from the sunburn and the road rash and a few mysterious bruises, but he doesn't remember the needle, the ink.

He can afford to get it removed, but he doesn't.

He could tell her what he can remember: being drugged, scared, abandoned, but he doesn't.

Partially because he likes the mystery.

Partially because he likes the tattoo.

Partially because _fuck you, Angela._

She sees it and thinks it's weird. Somehow, this makes him like it more. Not only does it make him a mysterious badass, but it pisses her off a little.

Which is fantastic, because she pisses him off, too.

Countless chances he's given this woman to get back what they had, and she runs around with a hodge-podge of assorted misfits; people who will never fit her like the perfect size-six glove he was.

And he really used to like Wendell, too.

As far as he's concerned, they both messed up. But he's willing to absorb the blow and keep moving forward, while she digs herself into an ever deepening hole.

So _fuck you, Angela. _He'll mix his metaphors all he wants.

So he dates, and it's less fun than he remembers, and he misses Wendell as his wing-man.

When asked, he makes up stories about the tattoo.

"I met her once, at a bar just like this one. We got drunk, and got matching tattoos of each other. I never saw her again."

"My sister. She ran away with her boyfriend the summer I turned sixteen. Made me promise to never forget her."

"Oh, her? She was the girl who lived next door to me growing up. We were the best of friends until she was killed in a hit-and-run a few years back."

It's a little narcissistic, but he likes the new identities these stories give him. He likes the feeling of stepping out of his own pathetic reality and into something more tragic.

He doesn't tell any of them the real story. Not once.

Because he doesn't like reliving that long walk home.

Because he doesn't like thinking about losing what could have been the best thing to ever happen to him.

Because _fuck you, Angela._


End file.
